From the Testament of a Mexican King

I. From the Testament of a Mexican King

Everything on earth has its limit, and even the most powerful and joyful fall in their might and joy and are cast down into the dust. The whole globe is only a great grave, and there is nothing on its surface that will not be hidden in a grave beneath the earth. Waters, rivers, and streams rush toward their destination and do not return to their happy source. All hurry forward to bury themselves in the depths of the infinite ocean.

What was yesterday is no more today; and what is today will be no more tomorrow. The cemetery is full of the dust of those who were once animated by life, who were kings, who ruled nations, who presided over assemblies, who led armies, who conquered new lands, who demanded worship, who swelled with vanity, pomp, and power. But their glory passed like the black smoke rising from a volcano and left nothing but a mention on the chronicler’s page.

The great, the wise, the brave, the beautiful—alas!—where are they now? They are all mixed with clay, and what befell them will befall us; will befall also those who come after us.

But take courage all of you—famous leaders, and true friends, and faithful subjects—let us strive toward that heaven where all is eternal and where there is neither decay nor destruction.

Darkness is the cradle of the sun, and for the brightness of stars the gloom of night is needed.

—Texcoco Nezahualcoyotl (About 1460 CE)

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II. The Death of Socrates

From Plato’s Dialogues

Soon after the death of Socrates, one of his disciples, Echecrates, meeting Phaedo, another disciple of Socrates who had been present at the death of their teacher, asked him to tell in detail everything that happened on that day: what those surrounding Socrates said, what he himself said and did, and how he died.

And Phaedo related the following:

“On that day we came, as we usually came on the preceding days, to the courthouse next to the prison. The doorkeeper, who usually admitted us to the prison, came out and told us to wait a little, since the judges were now with Socrates: they were removing his chains and announcing to him the order to drink the poison that very day. A little time passed, and the doorkeeper came out and said we could enter. When we entered, Socrates’s wife Xanthippe was there, with a child in her arms. She sat beside him on his bed.

As soon as Xanthippe saw us, she began to weep and to repeat the pitiful words that women usually say on such occasions: ‘Here your friends will speak with you for the last time and you with them,’ and so on.

Socrates tried to calm her and asked her to leave us alone with him for a while.

When Xanthippe had gone, Socrates, bending his leg, began rubbing it with his hand and, turning to us, said: ‘Here, my friends, is a wonderful thing—how pleasure is connected with suffering! My leg was pained by the chains, and now that they have been removed, I feel a special pleasure. Probably the gods, wishing to reconcile these two opposites—suffering and pleasure—have chained them together, so that one cannot be experienced without the other.’ Socrates wanted to say something more, but noticing that Crito was quietly speaking with someone behind the door, he asked what they were talking about.

‘The man who is to give you the poison,’ said Crito, ‘says that you should speak as little as possible. He says that those who talk before taking the poison become heated, and then the poison acts weakly, and one has to drink twice or three times as much.’

‘Well then!’ said Socrates. ‘We’ll drink twice or three times as much if necessary, but I think I should not miss the chance to talk with you especially now and to show that a man who during his life has striven for wisdom is not only not grieved but rejoices at the approach of death.’

‘How can you rejoice that you are leaving us?’ said one of us.

‘True,’ said Socrates, ‘this seems bad of me, but if you consider my situation, you will surely understand that a man who all his life has striven to subdue his passions—in which his body hindered him—cannot but rejoice at his liberation from it. And death, after all, is only liberation. For that perfection of which we have often spoken consists in separating, as far as possible, the soul from the body and in accustoming the soul to collect and concentrate itself outside the body, within itself; and death gives this very liberation. So would it not be strange that a man prepares his whole life to live so as to be as close as possible to mortal existence, and when that approach is ready to happen, is dissatisfied with it? And therefore, however much I regret parting from you and grieving you, I cannot but welcome death as the realization of what I was striving for throughout my life. So here, friends, is my defense for not being sad at leaving you. I shall be glad if this defense of mine is more convincing than the one I delivered at my trial,’ he said, smiling.

‘But for this to be so,’ said Cebes in response, ‘one must be sure that the soul, leaving the body, is not destroyed and does not perish like vapor or smoke; it would be good to believe or know that this is so. But the trouble is that one cannot be sure of it.’

‘That is true,’ said Socrates. ‘One cannot be fully certain, but there is a great probability that it is so. Tradition tells us that the souls of the dead go to Hades and continue to exist there until they return to the world and are born again from the dead. One may believe or not believe tradition, but there is great probability that people are born from the dead, because not only people but all animals and plants—everything is reborn from what has died. And if this is so, then life cannot fear death, and death is only rebirth to a new life. This is further confirmed by the fact that we all, living in this world, bear within us, as it were, memories of a former life of the soul. And there could be no memories if the soul had not lived before this life. So that, although a person’s body is mortal, the soul with its capacity for knowledge and memory cannot die together with the body. But it is not only that all our knowledge represents merely memories of a former life of the soul; the chief proof of the presence in us of a soul independent of the body and undying is that our soul is not only characterized by eternal ideas of beauty, goodness, justice, and truth, but these ideas constitute the very essence of our soul. And since these ideas are not subject to death, neither is our soul subject to death.’

Socrates finished, and we were all silent; only Cebes and Simmias were quietly speaking together.

‘What are you talking about?’ asked Socrates. ‘If you are speaking about what we just discussed, then say what you think. If you disagree or know a better explanation, say so directly.’

‘I will tell the truth,’ said Simmias. ‘I do not quite agree with what you said, and I wish to ask you, but I am afraid my question will be unpleasant to you in your situation.’

‘How difficult it is, however,’ said Socrates, smiling, ‘to convince people that I do not consider what has happened to me a misfortune. If I cannot convince even you, how can I convince others? You are wrong to think that I am now in a different state of mind than usual. Tell me then, what is your doubt?’

‘If so,’ said Simmias, ‘I will say directly what I doubt. It seems to me, Socrates, that what you said about the soul is not fully proved.’

‘In what way?’ asked Socrates.

‘In this,’ said Simmias, ‘that what you said about the soul can be said about the tuning of a lyre. One can say that although the lyre itself with its strings is something corporeal, earthly, and transient, the tuning of the lyre and the sounds it produces represent something incorporeal and not subject to death, and therefore, if the lyre is broken and its strings torn, still that tuning and those sounds it produced cannot die and must remain somewhere even after the destruction of the lyre. And yet we know that just as the harmony of a lyre is a result of the combination of strings stretched to a certain tension, so our soul is a combination and interaction of the various elements of the body in a certain relationship, and therefore, just as the harmony of a lyre is destroyed with the destruction of its component parts, so the soul is destroyed as a result of the disruption of the relationships that constitute our body; and these disruptions occur through various diseases or excessive weakening or straining of the body’s component parts.’

When Simmias finished, we all had an unpleasant feeling, as we later told one another. No sooner had Socrates’s words convinced us of the immortality of the soul than strong arguments to the contrary disturbed us again and gave rise to distrust not only in what had been said but, as it seemed to us, in everything that could be said on this subject.

I often marveled at Socrates, but never more than on this occasion. That he was not at a loss for an answer—there is nothing remarkable in that—but I marveled most at the good-natured calm with which he favorably and approvingly listened to Simmias’s speech, and at how, having noticed the impression this speech made on us, he skillfully helped us out of our doubt.

At that time I was sitting to his right, near his bed, on a low stool, while he, sitting on the bed, was higher than I. He had the habit of playing with my hair. So now, too, stroking my head and gathering my hair at the back of my neck, he said:

‘Tomorrow, Phaedo, you will cut off these beautiful locks.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘But wait before cutting them, and do as I do.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘This: let us promise to cut our hair—you yours tomorrow, and I mine today—but only if we fail to defend our arguments.’

I said jokingly that I agreed, and then Socrates turned to Simmias.

‘Very well, Simmias,’ he said. ‘The soul is like harmony. And just as harmony arises from the correct relationship of the lyre and strings, so the soul arises from a certain relationship of the elements of the body. And if this is so, how can this be reconciled with what we were just saying, and with which you agreed, that all our knowledge is memories of what we knew in previous existences? If the soul existed before the body in which it now finds itself, then how can it be a consequence of a certain relationship of the body’s parts? So that, if we recognize that all our knowledge is memories of former existences, we must also recognize that our soul has an existence independent of the conditions in which the body finds itself. Besides, the difference between harmony and the soul is also this: harmony does not know itself, but the soul knows its life and not only knows but governs it. Harmony cannot change the position of the lyre and depends on it, but the soul is independent of the body and can completely change its state. So, for example, right now all the elements of my body are in the correct relationship, the same as yesterday, yet my soul has decided something that will very soon disrupt this correct relationship of elements, because, as you know, if I had agreed to Crito’s proposal to escape from prison, I would now be far from here and would not be sitting here conversing with you while awaiting execution. But I did not agree to Crito’s proposal because I considered it more just to submit to the decision of the republic than to evade it.

So it turns out that harmony has sentenced the lyre to destruction—that is, there is something in me that knows its undying principle.

And therefore, although I cannot prove this with complete certainty, being conscious in myself of a rational and free principle that transcends the bodily shell in which it finds itself, I cannot but believe that my soul is immortal.

And if the soul is immortal,’ continued Socrates, ‘we are obliged to care for it not only for this life but also for that into which it passes at the death of the body.

Because if the soul is immortal and carries with it into other lives what it has acquired here, how can one not strive to make it as good and wise as possible!’

And after a short silence, he added:

‘However, my friends, it seems to me it is time to prepare for the bath, because it is better to drink the poison after bathing, so as not to give the women the trouble of washing a dead body.’

When he said this, Crito asked him what instructions he would give us concerning his children.

‘What I have always said, Crito,’ he replied, ‘nothing new. By caring for yourselves, for your soul, you will do the best both for me and for my sons and for yourselves, even if you promise me nothing.’

‘We will try to do so,’ answered Crito. ‘But how shall we bury you?’

‘As you wish,’ he answered, and, smiling, added: ‘I still cannot convince Crito, my friends, that Socrates is only this self that is now conversing with you, and not the one whom he will see shortly, motionless and cold.’

Having said this, he rose and went into a room to bathe. Crito followed him; he told us to wait. So we waited, talking among ourselves about what had been said and about the misfortune that had befallen us, depriving us of a friend, teacher, and guide.

When Socrates had finished bathing and his children had been brought to him—he had two small sons and one grown—and when the women of his household came in, he spoke with them, sent away the women and children, and came out again to us. It was already near sunset when Socrates came out to us. Soon after him came the servant of the Eleven and, approaching Socrates, said:

‘Socrates, you of course will not blame me, be angry, and curse me as those condemned are angry and curse me when I, by order of the Eleven, demand that they drink the poison. I have come to know you during this time and consider you the most noble, gentle, and best of all those who have come here, and therefore I hope that now too you are indignant not against me—for you know who is guilty—but against them. I have come to tell you that it is time to drink the poison. Farewell, and try to bear as easily as possible what is inevitable.’

Having said this, the servant began to weep, turned aside, and went out.

‘And farewell to you too,’ said Socrates. ‘We shall do our duty.’ And then, turning to us, he added: ‘What a good man! During this time he visited me, conversed with me, and I came to know him as a very good man. And now how touchingly he pities me! Well, Crito, let us fulfill his demand; let them bring me the poison, if it is ready.’

‘I think, Socrates,’ objected Crito, ‘that the sun is still high, and besides, many take the poison only very late, and feast all evening, and some even enjoy the pleasures of love. There is no need to hurry. There is still time.’

‘Those of whom you speak, dear Crito,’ said Socrates, ‘had reason to act as they did, probably thinking it was good for them, but I think otherwise. I think that by drinking the poison a little later I shall gain nothing except that I shall make myself ridiculous in my own eyes. Go and have the poison brought.’

Crito, hearing this, made a sign to the servant standing behind the door. The servant went out and soon returned, bringing with him the man who was to give Socrates the poison.

‘You know these things,’ Socrates said to him. ‘Teach me what must be done.’

‘You need only,’ the man answered, ‘after drinking, walk about until your legs grow heavy; then lie down, and the poison will do its work.’

Having said this, he handed Socrates the cup. Socrates took it and, with a cheerful look, without the slightest fear, not changing at all either in face or expression, but looking, as was his custom, intently at the jailer, asked:

‘What do you think about a libation from this drink in honor of some deity: is it permissible or not?’

‘We have prepared, Socrates,’ answered the man, ‘only as much as we considered necessary.’

‘Good,’ said Socrates. ‘But still one should pray to the gods that my migration from here to there may be accomplished successfully; this is what I pray for now.’

Having said this, he raised the cup to his lips and, without stopping, fearlessly and without hesitation, drank all that was in it. Until that moment we restrained ourselves and did not weep, but when we saw that he was drinking and had drunk, we could restrain ourselves no longer: tears poured from my eyes against my will; wrapping my head in my cloak, I wept for myself: it was not his but my own misfortune that I bewailed, losing in him such a friend. Crito, who even before me could not hold back his tears, went out. Apollodorus had not ceased weeping even before; now he burst into sobs.

‘What are you doing, amazing people?’ said Socrates. ‘I sent the women away so that they would not do something like this. One should die in reverent silence. Calm yourselves and be courageous.’

Making an effort over ourselves, we stopped weeping. And he walked silently for some time, then approached the bed and, saying that his legs were growing heavy, lay on his back as the servant who had brought the poison had advised him to do. He lay motionless; the servant from time to time touched his feet and shins. Pressing one of his feet, the servant asked if he felt it. Socrates answered ‘No.’ Then he, pressing his hands on the shins and thighs, showed us that Socrates was growing cold and stiff.

‘When the cold reaches the heart,’ he said, ‘then it will be the end.’

The cold was already reaching the lower part of his belly when Socrates, suddenly uncovering himself—for he had been covered—spoke his last words:

‘Do not forget to sacrifice a rooster to Asclepius.’

Evidently he wanted to say by this that he was grateful to the god of the healing art who, by means of the remedy he had invented, was curing him of life.

‘We will do so,’ answered Crito. ‘But have you anything more to say?’

To this question Socrates made no answer, and a little while later made a convulsive movement, after which the servant uncovered him. His gaze was already fixed. Crito approached him and closed his eyelids over his open, staring eyes.”

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Translator’s Notes:

• Nezahualcoyotl (1402–1472) was the philosopher-king of Texcoco, a city-state in the Valley of Mexico allied with the Aztec Triple Alliance. He was renowned for his poetry and wisdom, and his meditations on the transience of life and power survive in Nahuatl literature.
• The date given in the Russian text (“about 1460 BCE”) is clearly an error; Nezahualcoyotl lived in the 15th century CE.
• The “Death of Socrates” section is adapted from Plato’s Phaedo, one of the most important philosophical dialogues in Western literature. It describes the final hours of Socrates (469–399 BCE), who was condemned to death by drinking hemlock.
• The Eleven (hoi hendeka) were the magistrates responsible for prisons and executions in Athens.
• Asclepius was the Greek god of medicine. Socrates’s last words—asking his friends to sacrifice a rooster to Asclepius—have been variously interpreted. The most likely meaning, which Tolstoy endorses, is that Socrates viewed death as a cure for the illness of life.
• Simmias’s analogy of the soul to the harmony of a lyre was a standard argument against immortality in ancient philosophy. Socrates’s response—that the soul can oppose and govern the body—anticipates later debates about free will and mind-body dualism.
• The passage about Socrates’s refusal to escape from prison (Crito’s proposal) refers to an earlier dialogue, the Crito, in which Socrates explains why he will not flee Athens even to save his life.
• Tolstoy was deeply influenced by Socrates’s example of accepting death peacefully while continuing to teach. The Phaedo appears throughout Circle of Reading as one of the foundational texts of wisdom.